


Favor

by selfinduced



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Consent Issues, Cousin Incest, Erik Killmonger Lives, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, but he's sober and can consent, that nebulous Erik-isn't-dead-AU we have all accepted as reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-07 04:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selfinduced/pseuds/selfinduced
Summary: "Oh. Shit." Erik screws his eyes shut, "Sex pollen is real. That wispy shit got everywhere. It's real. Holy shit.""Why," T'Challa groans, "Do you never do what you are told."





	1. The Flower

"The flower, _did you touch it_?"

"The what?" Erik jumps guiltily, brushing cottony wisps off himself. He hadn't touched it so much as landed on it, and now it seems to be crushed and blowing some sort of pollen or seed everywhere.

T'Challa shakes his head and takes a running leap down from the cave entrance, leaving Erik to climb down less theatrically behind him, landing a few minutes after T'Challa who's already halfway to the ship when he stumbles.

 

"What is it?" Erik runs faster to catch up to him, "You injured?" Herb enhanced or otherwise, T'Challa doesn't stumble.

"It has been activated. It has... had an effect on me. I need--"

Slight panic sparks in Erik's chest, at the way T'Challa is looking at him with glassy eyes and mumbling his words.  
  
"You have to leave. Take the ship--" His suit starts to disappear and reappear in places. 

"What?" A laughing breath leaves Erik, "I'm not leaving you like this all--hey. Come on man, why's your suit melting off like that there ain't no vibranium trains or destabilizers around here."

"Cold. I--" T'Challa looks like he's struggling to breathe, sweat dripping down his chest and collecting on the waistband of the short pants that barely covered him that the suit had become. "Need--body heat--"

"Heat? Oh shit you're freezing. How are you freezing and sweating at the same time?" Erik reaches out and gathers T'Challa against him, trying not to focus on the fact that he man is now half naked. Nothing he hasn't seen before, but he hasn't exactly had T'Challa cling to him like this ever, shuddering under his touch. Writhing. Trying to flail away but Erik can't let him. Something's clearly wrong and if he has to get some antidote from somewhere or fly them back to Shuri's lab he's sure as hell gonna make sure to take T'Challa with him rather than leave him here.

"Aight, we goin'," He tightens his arms around T'Challa, scooping him up in a carry that is much easier than it seems like it should be for a man who wields the kind of presence T'Challa does. "Talk to me man, what did the flower do?"

"It is a myth, I have heard of female black panthers affected... since I am not female... my body is reacting… differently." He speaks in stops and starts, face dark and jaw clenched as if with effort. T'Challa then turns and looks directly at him, eyes burning and making Erik flush with confused heat, "you have to leave me, or I may do…things," T'Challa's eyes drift down to-- _is he? He is_ \--Erik's mouth. Erik gulps and picks up the pace without letting himself think.

 

Wakanda's greatest invention are kimoyo beads. Or the hover bikes, but the beads are the ones telling Erik vitally important things like how T'Challa's heart rate is ramping up and body temperature dropping down to critical levels and that apparently--the best way to warm him up is to join him on the bed of the medbay and provide skin to skin contact. Erik starts stripping before the directions finish, pulling T'Challa against himself and wrapping around him before wrapping a blanket around the both of them. "Hey, hey man, I'm here, ok?" He speaks directly into T'Challa's ear, hoping it will soothe him, and T'Challa does seem to calm, "I got the body heat. I thought you said there would be a cure somewhere in here, an antidote or something?" 

T'Challa shakes his head.

"Walk me through it, tell me what you need."

"N'Jadaka," T'Challa's eyes are feverish when they turn to look at him, turning away and arching his neck until it's all Erik can do not to press his lips on the goosebumps he can see appearing on his skin from this close up. "It is too late."

"What does that mean? My beads can't seem to get a signal out of here--" he chokes off as T'Challa shudders, his whole body, all that skin and muscle and bare against Erik's own and Erik's thought of this a thousand times, but only in his head, not like this where he doesn't know if, "It's going to be okay, right? You're the black panther," his voice softens, face pressing into the side of T'Challa's for his own needs this time, "Tell me what to do T, anything."

"I do not know," T'Challa breathes hard, sweat soaking his chest and Erik's arms where they're around said chest. This is, as Shuri would say, a multilayered situation. "But it must run its course, and it would be best if you were not present to--see."

"Quit that," Erik shifts his arms "I would _never_ , aight? Just, just tell me what makes you feel better. Anything." Somehow just ends up sliding his palms past T'Challa's nipples.

T'Challa makes a helpless sound in his throat, "Touch."

"I can do that," Erik nods, dragging his hand away from T'Challa's chest to rub down a shoulder, his arms, his sides, pausing on his bare hips before decisively rubbing farther down to his thighs. "Skin to skin, I got you," he says, talking more to himself than anything, trying not to react to the way T'Challa's breath has gone from hitching to full on breathy moans and his ass is writhing backward as if purposely seeking the part of Erik that is way too interested in this whole insane situation.

 

Erik shifts his hips back but the bed tray is only so big and T'Challa's on him and holy fucking god "Fuck, I'm sorry," Erik presses his forehead to the back of T'Challa's neck, "It's just," _just what, you're really naked? Yeah that sounds like a good explanation for why your dick is hard from your cousin pressing his ass all over it_ \--but it is though, pressing all over, grinding on him like T'Challa wants shit, like he, "Oh. Shit." Erik screws his eyes shut, "Sex pollen is real. That wispy shit got everywhere. It's real. Holy shit."

 

"Why," T'Challa groans, "Do you _never_ do what you are told." He turns his face into the bed, but Erik lifts his head to glance down to confirm that--yes, T'Challa is hard, and speaks fast before he can stop to think about what he's saying. "Aight, I'm caught up. Tell me what you need. Just to get off? Bodily fluids? How does this work?"

T'Challa makes a sound into the pillow that sounds like he might be laughing. Or calling Erik names in Xhosa. Either way--

He looks up and sends a quick thought out to Bast or anyone else listening -- _Not him, ok? Take whatever you want. Take me, I'm the one who fucked up your sacred temple and crushed the flower_ \-- and decides to play this one light, casual. Cocky enough to irritate T'Challa and distract him from overthinking.

"Look, I know you're embarrassed, but I'm really good at sex, ok? Don't worry, I got this."

 

“I cannot ask you to—” 

“You’re not asking, I offered. We’re adults, and you’d do the same for me."

T’Challa swallows but nods at him.

“We’re ok,” Erik reaches out and touches his cheek, “Just think of what you’d do if it was me, ok?”

T’Challa turns his cheek into his hand.

“Can you say no, and wait this out?”

“Yes,” T’Challa’s forehead wrinkles.

“What would happen?”

“I do not know. It may not be lethal. It is never lethal on female Panthers. My suit may protect me.”

“Your suit’s melted almost all the way back into its holder. Do we really want to take that chance?”

T’Challa looks at him, one eyebrow lifting slightly as if to say, do _you?_

“ _I_ don’t.” Erik waggles his eyebrows right back. He has better eyebrow game anyway.

 

“Here, look,” He leans over and presses his mouth to the base of T'Challa's neck, licks at the collected sweat and bites down, gentle, just the right pressure--there. He smirks at the way T'Challa's neck falls to the side, giving him more room. Erik takes it, kisses up to his ear, licks into it until T'Challa's given up all pretense of holding his shit together, tearing at the material of the bed, vibranium claws sheathing and unsheathing as he moans and rocks his ass up at Erik's dick as soon as Erik climbs onto him and presses down, touches those wide shoulders, down the hollow of his spine, kissing and tasting and he means to go slow, to coax T'Challa into it all gentle, but he's wanted this so bad for so long, and T'Challa's skin is just there--miles and miles of it, just bare and ok for him to touch--he lays his hands down flat on his back, running his palms, down, fitting them to the curve of T'Challa's hips, sucking kisses down the knobs of his spine all the way to the base, squeezing at the globes of his ass, biting down on one while running a finger down the middle into the crease.

He hadn't meant to go straight for the prize but the way T'Challa's lifting off the bed and making a muffled sound that might be actual sobbing--yeah sure it's the pollen heightening his senses or whatever, but stroke a man's ego. Erik strokes at his own cock for a second before reaching up to run blunt nails up the inside of T'Challa's thighs, stopping under his balls. They're tight already, fuck he's so ready. He presses a thumb under the base of T'Challa's balls, stroking just a bit up to trace the crinkled skin, making a questioning sound without lifting his mouth off where he's sucking a mark into the top of one asscheek. T'Challa seems to nod with his whole body, thighs shaking where he's lifted up on his knees just a little, giving Erik room for one hand under T'Challa to palm at his dick.

He means to go slow, stroke it until T'Challa gets used to it, but he's felt the smooth velvety heat of his cock for about two seconds before he's flipped T'Challa on his back to get it in his mouth, greedy and choking because T'Challa makes him forget finesse, like a seven course meal after starving for weeks and he can't pace himself, he can't keep from sucking down and reaching his tongue out farther to taste his balls like _he’s_ the one affected, and oh that gets a response, T'Challa who had his arm thrown over his head to hide his eyes is lifting up to look down at him--Erik would smirk again, but he's busy lifting off to go suck on those balls separately, laving his tongue up, eyes opening when T'Challa lifts up at his mouth, one hand reaching for him then moving away when the claws flash on and off.

Erik thinks he should probably be more concerned about his own safety, but T'Challa's balls are drawn even tighter in his mouth and he pulls off to cup them in his hand as he goes back to swallowing down T'Challa's cock, no pause, no tease, can't even think about playing games with the way T'Challa is whispering soft desperate things at him, fucking his hips up until Erik builds up speed and he's coming, fast fast, filling up the back of his throat, making him gag, and he takes it, his own cock throbbing and twitching at the way come leaks out over his lips. He looks up at T'Challa and watches those dark eyes open, has to rest his head on the inside of T'Challa's thigh at the way it makes him dizzy, those damn eyes.

 

T'Challa's hand runs down Erik's cheek, thumb wiping at the come on Erik's lower lip and slips it inside, and Erik sucks it in, closing his eyes to hide from the way T'Challa is looking at him. "You good now?" His voice comes out deeper and lower than he meant it, hoarse.

"Thank you, I--" T'Challa swallows audibly, making Erik look up at him again. Eyes feverish again, dick rising imperiously in Erik's face. He laughs, licking his lips and raising an eyebrow at T’Challa, who shrugs helplessly.

Erik can't seem to feel disappointed about this. He hides a smile in T'Challa's thigh, kissing it. "Round two it is." He knows T'Challa is glaring at him and it only makes him grin harder, pressing his hand on T'Challa's stomach to lay him back down and climbing over him. "Just lie back, Princess, I got you."

 

T'Challa rolls his eyes, but his mouth opens and he breathes in sharply when Erik's hand slides down the back of his balls and teases around his hole, slick with spit and pulsing around his finger. Erik laughs.

He pushes T'Challa's thighs up and apart, because he can, because T'Challa goes so easy, so flexible and open, biting his lower lip even as he looks cautiously up at Erik, those lips Erik's stared at for years now and still hasn't tasted. Still doesn't know if he's allowed to, and it makes something twist inside of him, as the tip of his middle and index fingers nudge at T'Challa's hole next to where his tongue is circling. Erik leans back to watch, holding T'Challa's eyes as he pushes in, going slow but firm, T'Challa's all slicked up, lord knows he got enough spit down there, but he'll probably need a minute to adjust, but that's not the point, the point is, T'Challa's mouth is open, and his eyes are on Erik's, and his ass is trying to push itself on Erik's fingers like every filthy daydream he's had since they've met and if he doesn't hold himself together he's gonna babble all of that unnecessary information out.

 

T'Challa makes an impatient sound, tugging Erik's fingers forward until they're buried in his ass. _Jesusfuck._ "Oh it's like that now," Erik grins, wiggling his fingers once and stilling, "Why don't you do it for me, Princess? Move my hand for me," and oh fuck--T'Challa does. His hand firm on Erik's wrist, moving his fingers in and out, and Erik can't stop smiling like a horny idiot, "Yeah, that's right, fuck yourself with my fingers, just like that, you want more? Oh three, goddamn," He bites his tongue on the _bae_ that almost slips out at the end of that, closing his eyes tight against the need to say things that will either give him away or make him look ridiculous or both. 

He curls his fingers inside T'Challa instead, testing the stretch, moving down to suck his cock again, just a little, just to lick up the precome that's spreading on his belly like ice cream melting off in the sun, the way T'Challa moans and twists up at him heady and delicious, distracting him until it's T'Challa's hands tugging him up by the hair that reminds Erik what he'd planned. But still, he glances up at T'Challa as he slowly eases off his cock, letting it out inch by inch, gratified when the hand leaves off from pulling at Erik's hair to flash the claws in and out again. His kitten is out of control and it spurs him on, kissing down to where his fingers are fucking into T'Challa, tracing his tongue around the rim, light and teasing, making T'Challa lift off the bed again, then putting on pressure, licking just the edge of the rim while fucking with his fingers, other hand on T'Challa's cock, pushing in his tongue above his fingers while pushing down with one finger to keep his hole stretched and open and helpless, overwhelming him from both ends until T'Challa's thighs are shaking and balls are drawn up tight and he's making incoherent mewling sounds that's going to replay in Erik's dreams for at least the next decade. Fuck. He reaches a hand down to squeeze at his own cock.

He pauses, watching T'Challa's face--forehead creased and mouth open, and it's gratifying as hell except that it makes Erik want to lean up and kiss that look on his face, take it and keep it for himself after all this is over. Erik pushes three fingers in all at once, driving the thought out of his head, and when T'Challa throws back on him, meeting his thrust, claws permanently out and stabbed into the bed, Erik shakes his head, because fuck it, and fucks him all out in earnest, speeding up and filling the medbay with loud obscene slicking sounds of flesh hitting flesh, watching the way T’Challa’s stomach tightens with each thrust, making Erik wish he had a month just to taste and map those muscles with his tongue, the way his nipples are tight little nubs--Erik reaches up and twists one, and T'Challa's ass clenches around him, and there's no helping him after that, he’s curling his fingers to rub at that spot inside him and watching T'Challa's cock pulse where it's been swinging swollen and dark all over his own belly, streaking out white as soon as Erik even reaches to touch it, ass clenching in waves.

 

"God, fuck," Erik drops his face on the inside of one of T’Challa’s folded up knees, his name an almost inaudible whisper against his skin. Well, inaudible if he wasn't next to a man with superhuman hearing. Erik's heart jolts into a race. One of T'Challa's hands buries itself in his hair, the other lifting his jaw and angling his face and--T'Challa's mouth is on his, licking inside, searching and possessing as if Erik hasn't given everything he has already. _First kiss_ , Erik thinks, stupidly. Like there might be more of them.

 

"Remotely piloted ship approaching. Princess Shuri requests communication." The ship's communication system blares to life.

"Allow audio." T'Challa leaps off the bed tray, sweaty mess to fully recovered in moments.

 

Erik lets his head thunk back onto the medbay bed, watching T'Challa dress hurriedly by activating the panther suit as he starts running medical scans on himself.

 

"Brother! Your signal was off for over an hour and I had to fly in a whole ship to look for you. Are you okay? Why is the video not on?"

"I am well Shuri, thank you." T'Challa's voice is soft for his baby sister, "You know how temperamental the zone around the temple is. Tell mama I have recovered the items she asked."

 

Erik takes the chance to collect his clothes from the various corners he threw them to in his hurry to get to T'Challa. There's probably no need to spend the whole trip back to Birnin Zana in the bathroom, but he can't seem to make himself come out until they've already landed.

 

-

 

"N'Jadaka," T'Challa runs to catch up to him in the hangar bay. Erik thought maybe he'd be distracted enough by Shuri and Okoye giving him the third degree, but the man does have super hearing. He runs a hand over his face and making sure he has no expression before turning around. 

"Look, it's cool. You got poisoned. I provided treatment. It's all good. We good."

T'Challa purses his lips, furrowing his eyebrows at Erik in that way he does when he's being all serious and Erik can tell all this without looking which should really tell him something and he really, really, cannot deal with this.

"I gotta go, ok? I have the mission in Dakar and Nakia is waiting for me to provide backup." He turns to go without waiting for a response.

Feels himself being pulled back by the straps to his vest back inside the hangar bay, hidden behind ships and walls from the Dora, hauled against T'Challa's chest. T'Challa who seems to search Erik's face for a second before crushing his mouth on his.

Erik opens up to it hopelessly, can't begin to think of using the hand that comes up to push him away to do anything but settle on his chest like it belongs there, over his heart. T'Challa is breathing hard, looking at him with those intense eyes that you can't look directly back at, like the sun. So it figures that his hand is cupping Erik's jaw and tipping his face up. "N'Jadaka please look at me."

Erik bites his lip, glancing lowered eyes up at him carefully. 

"I am more than merely grateful. We--you have to know I--"

"We're good, T." He says firmly, steps out of T'Challa's arms, needing to get out of there before he can reassure Erik that it was what he had really wanted or even that he _liked_ it and they could do it again sometime. All casual. Hell, Nakia probably won't even care. See it as healthy exploration or something. It's not like she never sleeps with anyone else. But T'Challa hasn't, to his knowledge.

 

T'Challa swallows, nodding. "Message me when you return."

 


	2. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing is--T'Challa's here.
> 
> It's his palace, so that's usually a given. But Erik's done real good focusing on the mission so far and the whole routine is falling apart with the mission completed and T'Challa no more than a corridor away.

The ship crosses into the sunrise on their way home from Dakar, the sky clearing out into a cloudless, dizzying blue.

Erik volunteered to do the flying, letting Nakia sleep, watching the horizon, the curve of it pulling him forward. If he doesn't focus on the ground, that emptiness up there would make him feel like he might float right off the Earth, with nothing to anchor him down. Probably the side effects of a shiftless childhood with nowhere to belong to, Counselor A'Marii would say.

But it's changed over the past few years. This time especially--his palms keep slipping and his pulse won't slow down no matter how much he controls his breathing, and when Wakanda appears on the horizon, it's a physical tug in his chest, like he can feel without seeing the specific spire in the palace where T'Challa is sitting on a throne, probably holding morning court.

 

-

 

Nakia reports to Okoye. Dakar went well--they've established an untraceable chain of routes through which to disseminate classified intel on U.S. agents in all participating African countries, making it very difficult to hide the Americans' attempts to control and interfere with everything from elections to weapons trading in foreign countries. Erik has information and contacts to share to help plan the next stage in expanding the network to South American countries, flicking through files on his kimoyo beads. His eyes focus on none of them, thoughts drifting instead to T'Challa. The way he'd looked with his head thrown back and eyelashes shadowing his face as Erik sucked his cock.

The thing is--T'Challa's here.

It's his palace, so that's usually a given. But Erik's done real good focusing on the mission so far and the whole routine is falling apart with the mission completed and T'Challa no more than a corridor away, probably sitting on his throne with his back straight but his thighs spread open and nodding regally and biting at his lower lip at something someone says--Erik licks at his own lips, chasing for the texture of T'Challa's when he kissed Erik in the hangar bay, seemingly completely sober and in control but hands still gripping at Erik like he wanted--like he might want--

Erik runs a hand through his hair, flicking to another file without reviewing the last.

 

"My Prince, Nakia and I can finish up here, we can reconvene for the next planning stage tomorrow." Okoye manages to simultaneously address him by rank and still dismiss him. She's a savage and he respects that, mock saluting as he takes his leave.

 

-

 

The thing is also that Erik's always been a little defenseless when it comes to T'Challa.

Somewhere between "Bury me in the ocean" and "Wakanda does not have a prison industrial complex, N'Jadaka" he started wondering what else this spoiled and unfairly beautiful king knew about the outside world and whether he was willing to do anything about it. There was also that probably blood loss induced thought in the back of his head about how dying in his arms looking at Wakanda's sunset was low key poetic--and T'Challa, the perceptive asshole, caught on. "Unless you waited your whole life only to make pretty speeches and give up when you could not best me in a fight."

"Fuck you," Erik had spat the words out along with blood, managing to nod when T'Challa reached forward with a kimoyo bead near the hilt of the dagger he put in Erik's chest to stabilize his wound.

 

- 

 

The bastard had started insidiously by giving him books--manuscripts hundreds to thousands of years old--immeasurable value entrusted to Erik's reluctant hands like a newborn into the hands of an unwilling mother, taking a chance on the fact that she might take care of it anyway, out of instinct. T'Challa gambled on his thirst for more of his heritage and won.

Healing his lungs and repairing the heart enough to allow him to live hooked up to machines had taken Wakandan medics and Shuri's genius mind a week. The overall process of growing him a brand new pericardial sac and replacement lung-lobes, and reconditioning his body to use them fully had taken the better part of two years. Plenty of time for T'Challa to make daily visits whenever he was in the country, to tell Erik about his plans of talking to the UN and building outreach centers, and for Erik to get bored enough to tell him exactly how his idiotic plans would fail.

 

It didn't hurt that T'Challa was even more breathtaking when he was riled up than when he was poised and perfect, adamant that Erik's plan was reductive and borne out of vengeance--and _was that really what he wanted their people to become? Perpetrators of more ugliness in the name of revenge? Being so consumed they relegated themselves to a future of bloodied hands and constant fear of retribution as colonizers did?_

Erik, in a rare moment of _not_ dissembling during his second year in the infirmary, admitted that maybe he hadn't wrapped his mind around exactly what kind of resources Wakanda could have beyond advanced weapons, and felt that he needed to act as fast as possible before someone could try to stop him, and violence had seemed like the only possible option. That maybe he never had the luxury of ever considering peace a viable option. 

Erik blames that particular admission on the fact that T'Challa's eyes shone darkly when hearing about Oakland--even the dispassionate way Erik talked about it as if giving a census report--how the foster care system worked, or rather didn't, how being funneled into the military was a better alternative than prison, and all the ways in which it was impossible for anyone in that environment--as if Erik was separate--to shake off the idea that resistance was futile without resorting to violence--even if only in music and lyrical imagery. T'Challa came from a culture that allowed men to express emotion and either Erik had to distract him, or watch him emote, risk not being able to look away, finding himself captured.

 

T'Challa found other ways to get under his skin, of course, and probably not even on purpose--weaving his callused, long-fingered, musician's hands--of course he plays music, from ceremonial drumming to strumming something with strings in the gardens at night, the man refuses to go unnoticed. Just talking, he has to make definitive gesture that make Erik's skin prickle even watching them, holding his breath for the dimples that always give away the king's amusement at Erik's insults. 

 _I can still kill him,_ he would remind himself, strapped into Wakanda's high tech hovering version of a wheelchair, hooked into his cardiopulmonary system and juiced up enough to let him zoom anywhere his heart desired on the palace grounds.

 

Somehow, he ended up in T'Challa's quarters and his own personal library more often than not, like Icarus flying closer and closer to the sun, except he knew perfectly well he could burn.

 

-

 

The scanners in front of T'Challa's quarters take his biometric readings, ready to alert the nearby lounges and corridors full of Dora Milaje that he just snuck past to come running if he reads as an intruder. T'Challa had set it to allow him through after the second time he had deliberately set off the alarms in the middle of the night while visiting with his chair. 

He's sure he'd been walking towards his own room in the Wardogs' wing when he left the meeting with Okoye, but the door chimes open and here he is.

 

"N'Jadaka." T'Challa turns around, on his way out of the bathing suite with one hand on a towel around his waist, "We should talk."

Erik avoids his eyes, but can't avoid looking at the water dripping down his chest, mouth opening reflexively, and whatever T'Challa wanted to say is going to have to wait because Erik needs to taste him. The thing with Erik is that he's been hungry his whole life and no amount of knowing that he can never _have_ T'Challa--that he's not part of _the plan_ \--is enough to stop Erik now that he knows what it's like to pretend. He wants to touch the sun. He wants to burn to _ashes_.

 

He looks back up then, to meet T'Challa's eyes as he walks forward, holds them as he lowers to his knees, breaking only to press a kiss above his navel.

T'Challa makes a quiet, breathless sound, frozen as Erik licks down his abdomen, pauses at the edge of the towel like a question--as he had with his fingers and mouth back on the ship near the temple.

He presses forward, minutely, undetectable if Erik's mouth weren't already hovering close enough to brush the hairs standing up from his skin, and Erik's hands tug the towel down, mouthing at the head of his cock that rises to meet him. Like it knows who it belongs to.

Erik leans into the hand T'Challa reaches towards his cheek, eyes fluttering closed as he licks up the underside, tastes him, clean and damp from the shower, losing all sense of patience and technique and taking him all the way into his mouth almost immediately, just like last time. He's gonna have to learn to control this. Not that he should be thinking he'll get the chance but he's here, and--

"You look, oh _Bast_ ," T'Challa's voice shakes.

Erik goes harder, until his thighs shake too,  T'Challa's hands in his hair tightening their grip, moving him at first, and then a low, tortured sound as he pulls Erik off and up.

 

Erik goes, looking at him darkly, as if daring him to object, to say he doesn't want Erik to finish when his body is saying the opposite.

T'Challa kisses his mouth, soft, careful hunger brushing forward until Erik opens up for him, sucks on his tongue the way he sucked on his cock, satisfied when he gets a moan in response, T'Challa biting at his lower lip, stroking his tongue into Erik's mouth hard and deep, stealing his breath and making him dizzy.

He hasn't slept since Dakar and that's been at least 21 hours, so it might not be the floor that's spinning--no, it's T'Challa, hands on his hips under his tactical vest, steering them and backing Erik towards his room, towards--the bed. Erik hums, pulling at the buckles on his gear, getting it off with--okay, despite--T'Challa's help, ending up on his ass and elbows on the bed when T'Challa pushes him, coming to his knees to pull at Erik's shoes and pants.

 

"Good talk." Erik manages, voice coming out raspy as he licks at his own lips to chase the taste of T'Challa, watching him kneeling between his knees.

"I just wanted to--"

"Take off all my clothes?" Erik raises an eyebrow.

T'Challa shakes his head at him in that chastising way that always makes his insides flutter like maybe the medics didn't put him back together quite right, rising back up to the bed, one knee between Erik's legs. Funny how his legs had just spread to accommodate him. His body is all too ready to make room for T'Challa.

"I ain't complaining, Princess," he raises a hand, thumb rubbing on T'Challa's full lower lip, darkened from kisses, until T'Challa brings that mouth back down to him, tipping Erik's head up, big hands splayed on his jaw and neck.

 

"My turn," T'Challa says lowly, one hand lodging in the knot Erik's tied his dreads up into, pulling them loose and pulling his head back by holding on to them to kiss down his throat, sucking a bite where it joins his shoulder.

And Erik laughs, exhaustion shading everything with euphoria, turning his face down into T'Challa's, "Shoulda known you'd be like this, marking me up, all entitled," but his words get stuck in his throat as T'Challa's lips and teeth make their way down, pausing at the nipples to glance up, watching for his reactions. He reaches for T'Challa but T'Challa catches his hands, more graceful than Erik's thick fingered ones on an average day, let alone with twice as much sleep, pinning them down as he bites into one nipple, gentle at first, then sucking until it seems like it'd hurt and then bites again, _hard_. Erik nearly raises off the bed, he hadn't known it could do that. "F- _uck_."

 

He can feel the head of T'Challa's cock nudging wetly against one thigh, but T'Challa makes no effort to press it forward for more pressure, just letting it drag along, trailing precome and marking his skin as he licks with careful attention as if he's totally focused on mapping individual scars with his tongue. Slowing down until his lips are lingering, barely touching, and Erik's only hope is that he'll count downwards eventually, where his own cock is aching and untouched. His hands are still pinned, and he would do something about it, if his spine wasn't melting and incapable of supporting movement.

He almost sobs a little, when T'Challa's mouth finally lands at the base of his cock, licking up the underside, slow and deliberate and maddening finesse. Erik doesn't know if the whole experience is better or worse from the way T'Challa's eyes are a little glazed too, noticing how his dick jerks under those long fingers even as Erik complains.

 

"Best conversation we had, your highness," he tries to get the words out between harsh breaths, and gets a laugh that vibrates through his dick for his troubles, and one hand finally lets go of one of his to cup his balls, roll them, press his thumb under them in that little space between them and his hole, stroking as he swallows Erik down to the root, making him see stars and palming the insides of his own thighs, T'Challa's cheek, his hair, trying to get out words that T'Challa seems to already know. "I'm gonna--" he chokes on his own words, a sharp pain on the inside of his thighs even as he's coming, and he manages to stay up on his elbows long enough to look down--T'Challa's claws are out and he's jerked his hands away but the series of puncture wounds where each claw tip touched are there, scoring the inside of his thigh.

It's even more of a rush than it would have been just to come down T'Challa's throat. He lies there and concentrates on being silent and avoiding saying anything stupid like _whoa_ , or _wow_ , or _what does this mean._

 

"I have hurt you," T'Challa's sounds faintly panicked, starting to rise and probably find a towel or a kimoyo bead.

"It's just a scratch, Princess. You've given me worse." Erik stops him, puts a hand on his mouth, eyes locking into his. He doesn't know what T'Challa's reading in them, but he sucks Erik's fingers into his mouth.

Erik tugs and T'Challa comes, climbing up, pausing momentarily when Erik keeps pulling, and moves up until his thighs on either side of his chest. Erik smirks as he takes his cock and strokes it so the head keeps rubbing against the scars on his chest,  raises his head just enough to lick the head and get it wet. Looks up to see T'Challa's head thrown back and opens his hand and presses his cock down towards himself, rubbing it directly on his chest, on the bed of raised scars, the ridged lines in the middle, slick with sweat and saliva.  

T'Challa looks down at him, curious, but too far gone to question when he grabs a handful of ass to pull T'Challa forward. T'Challa bends over him, bracing his hands on either side of his head and grinds his cock down, sliding back and forth along the ridged valley in the middle of his chest.

Erik leans forward to lick at the tip whenever it comes close enough and lets the precome smear all over his lips and looks up to make sure T'Challa's watching as he licks at it, squeezing his pecs together to form a deeper valley--he's no double d woman but T'Challa seems to be into it, coming all over his chest and looking like he doesn't know what hit him.

T'Challa stares, breathing hard, eyes glossy and dark as he touches little bit of come stringing on Erik's lower lip, and Erik knows that look--like he can go again right now, and flicks his eyes down--and oh, wow, hard again.

 

He surges up to kiss T'Challa's slack-jawed mouth, "So that's just you huh? Side effect of the herb?" 

"I am fine," T'challa rumbles up at him as Erik rolls him over and climbs on top, "this was more than satisfactory."

"Satis _fac_ tory," Erik mutters, outraged, kissing him down into the bed, hand sliding into his and tangling their fingers. His ass seems to settle on T'Challa's cock, and he lets it, loving the way T'Challa's hips rock up a little, almost involuntary, fucking into the cleft. "What if I let you fuck me, hm? Would that be more than satisfactory?" 

"Is that something you want?" T'Challa looks searchingly at him, like he's still checking for something. They should maybe actually have this conversation. _I want you all the time._

 

Erik rocks his hips on his cock in a circle instead, fucking his tongue deep and dirty into T'Challa's mouth "What do you think?" His voice is low and hoarse, and he knows his eyes are dilated when T'Challa looks up into them, not looking while he reaches up behind him to pull a jar out of a compartment on the headboard that seems to appear out of nowhere. Some part of Erik wonders at how often he uses it, having it so conveniently close. If there's anyone else helping him, if it's Nakia--

He snatches the jar out of T'Challa's hands and fingers himself, T'Challa watching him with his mouth open and before joining him, holding a steadying finger in him as he raises Erik up on his knees and sits up to kiss low on his belly, ignoring his rehardening cock as it brushes the side of his face to kiss the base of his balls instead, licking the creases of his thighs. Erik lowers himself slowly, arms around T'Challa's neck, cheeks brushing together on his way down, groaning softly as T'Challa bites his neck unforgivably gently--tenderly--as Erik sinks onto his cock.

T'Challa's hands are on his hips and lips on his neck, holding him up to let him get used to his width before sliding farther down, controlling the drop until he's finally, finally all the way in, his skin shivering with heat and T'Challa's arms around him, holding him close as if it doesn't matter if they ever move again, as if it's not killing him to wait. Erik hides his face in his neck, trying to breathe without sobbing.

 

"N'Jadaka, I--" T'Challa's voice is too soft, too filled with _something,_ and it makes his chest ache.

"What, what is it?" Erik tries to focus but the waves of pleasure building up in him are distracting. Luckily, he doesn't have claws, so his fingers digging into T'Challa are only going to leave bruises--probably not even that, with his powers.

"I want to--can I--"

"Anything," Erik promises recklessly, "I want you to do anything you want to me."

 

T'Challa groans, sucking a kiss into his neck and somehow managing to roll them over without sliding out of him. Erik's legs stay folded up, T'Challa's knees coming up under his thighs to keep them spread, keep him open as T'Challa slides just the slightest bit out and pushes back in. Erik's control dissolves and he lets out a long, drawn out sound.

T'Challa raises up on an elbow and looks at him intently, keeping their eyes locked as he pulls out again, farther, and does it again. Erik grits his teeth but the sounds are gonna happen and it's--fuck. T'Challa's pulled out again, farther this time and coming back in only enough to hit that spot inside him, thrusts angled and shallow as Erik bites his lower lip and glares at him.

"Stop fighting it, N'Jadaka," he draws out the last syllable of Erik's name when Erik clenches around him, " _Oh,_ " and it's good to see that it's affecting him too.

 

Erik reaches up and brings him closer, pressing in with his thighs on either side of T'Challa's hips, cradling his body, sucking a kiss at the part of his shoulder that he can reach, and when T'Challa moans and slides fully into him and starts moving like he can't stop himself, murmuring in Xhosa things fast and desperate, something inside him breaks. 

He stops being able to keep track of which sounds are T'Challa's and which ones are his own, and he's too far gone to parse out which language T'Challa's speaking when, just understands _N'Jadaka wam--my N'Jadaka_ , _let me see you, feel it from inside of you, just let me._ And something that he's probably understanding wrong because it translates to _pull my seed from me_ and Erik wants to laugh like _I ain't gon get pregnant you know that right_ but all he does is moan and dig his hands into T'Challas ass and pull him closer because he would do it if he could. He wants all of T'Challa, all of this, for himself, always has, since the moment he saw him in Busan, dark and lethal and fallen on his ass as he stared up at Erik leaning out the back of the van, something inside him went _mine_ and he's tried to quiet it down, contain it, tell it to be sensible and it doesn't give a fuck, doesn't care about revenge or justice or proprieties or reciprocation, just wants to pull T'Challa in and consume him, keep him--love him, kill anyone who dares to touch him, take bullets for him--Erik swears and fucks upward to meet every thrust so his cock rubs into T'Challa's belly, fully hard again, bites down on his shoulder as he feels T'Challa reach down between them and stroke at his cock just as he starts pulsing inside Erik, thrusts getting wet and stickyhot, moaning words and sounds and maybe, " _Come for me_ ," kissing blindly at Erik's jaw. 

And Erik does.

He winds his arms around T'Challa's shoulders, stopping him when T'Challa moves to get off him, though his cock slips out eventually, and Erik lets their legs topple down, still entangled, the bone deep exhaustion of the last few days hitting hard all at once. And he doesn't have to fight it--this is the safest place he can be. T'Challa's weight on him keeping him anchored, hidden.

 

-

 

He wakes up not knowing what year it is, like maybe he's still six and baba's sleeping in the next room, and he's warm and safe and-- _home._ He turns the word over and around in his head.

Erik hasn't had a home since T'Challa's father killed his own. Something about that thought should shake him, because he's fully awake now and knows exactly where and when he is--T'Challa's arms pulling him closer even in sleep, Erik knows he's asleep from his steady breathing--but all he can think is that he feels like he's home.

 

-

 

The very day he was out of the chair, two years after he'd agreed to let T'Challa heal him and take a chance that it wouldn't mean imprisonment, he followed T'Challa onto his ship without asking too many questions, figuring there was no danger. He reconsidered when the wire fencing and crate serving as a basketball hoop appeared on the viewscreen. All of it sickeningly familiar, unchanged in the last fifteen years, something tearing apart inside him when he saw the apartment building he'd most recently seen in a heart-shaped herb induced trip to the ancestral plane.

He had breathed with his mouth open to keep it silent, unable to focus on T'Challa's words, eyes locked on the window that looked exactly like where his father possibly still was, in some afterlife limbo, his throat closing up. He couldn't form the words to tell T'Challa to stop fucking talking--make sounds around the weight in his chest, crushing his brand new lab-grown lungs-- _Why would you bring me here._

 

"This is where our fathers lied to each other," T'Challa had been saying, "I wanted us to be here when I pledge to tell our truths." His words were slow and thick, "What he did to you was indefensible. I have tried to understand it and make excuses. That perhaps he did not know about you when he killed your father--but Zuri did. That perhaps he could not find you--but he had the resources to do so. Even when you arrived, I was still trying to think through all the perhapses. Perhaps I could draw first blood and it would be enough to deter you. Perhaps I should let you draw mine, and it would appease you. Ultimately, I came to accept that my father who I loved and admired most in the world, who I had trusted completely, did an unconscionable thing. That he raised me with ideals that he himself did not uphold."

T'challa's eyes were unforgivably earnest. Erik told himself that it was just T'Challa--he always looked like that--but the thing is, T'Challa always looked like that because he _was_ just that damn earnest, that sincere. Like maybe he'd be ready to cry with you if you had to. Erik had kept his blurring eyes turned away.

Thankfully, T'Challa didn't seem to require a response yet, continuing, "N'Jadaka, I cannot make up for what you have lost, but I promise to make reparations. To help you _take_ reparations for our people."

 

"Take reparations," Erik had whipped his head up, repeating the oddly forceful words, trying to decipher them. 

"This building will be the first of the outreach centers. What I did not tell you was that the centers will not be directly traceable to Wakanda. This one, for example, is reportedly here through the combined efforts of Unicef and Amnesty International. All of the centers will appear similarly connected to well known aid organizations."

"So Uncle Sam won't know shit 'bout you setting up basecamps in their territory."

"The centers will be located worldwide, but yes--the United States does like to monitor and interfere outside their borders. And through these centers, we will first provide direct aid to our people in the diaspora, but also have access to not only monitor back but dismantle every system colonizers have in place that continue to oppress them."

Erik had stared at him then, mind trying to go from stunned to lightspeed, and clapped him soundly on the back, "Didn't know you had it in you."

"I take it that you approve," T'Challa's mouth curved the slightest amount, satisfaction undetectable if not for the dimples. Erik wanted to kiss him, and with this strange new exuberance bubbling up in him, he almost did it, swaying into his space.

"I'm saying maybe you're smarter than you look." Erik said instead, "And, I'm interested."

 

"Good," Nakia stepped out of what must be a cloaked entrance to the building. "Because we have bought all the buildings within a one kilometer radius and I do not believe anyone will take them back."

T'Challa's face lit up as he looked down at her, their eyes locking, and the bubbles fizzing up inside Erik dissolved back into the reality he'd managed to forget for a second. That there are things little black boys from Oakland just never get to have, even if they happen to be a secret African prince. 

"And what T'Challa has not gotten around to telling you," Nakia said without looking away from T'Challa's face with her own answering smile, "Is that you will be in charge of this endeavor." She turned to Erik at last, "With oversight from the Wardogs and Okoye, of course, but as long as your plans do not involve inflicting more injustice, we-- _I_ " flourishing a hand at her chest, "Am here to work with you."

 

And so it began.

Erik swallowed his hungers and dove into the plan. It's a pattern with him, obsessive focus and being driven by an impossible goal. Added to the fact that this one involved spending only slightly less time with T'Challa than during his years in the chair, T'Challa who wants to share, who wants to give him family, home, who quietly made sure therapists and counselors paraded by until he was willing to talk to one--Counselor A'Marii--and made sure they could keep finding him until he could bring himself to find them, and exhumed his father's body to give proper burial rites as soon as Erik was recovered enough to physically participate in them.

 

He doesn't know when he forgot to guard himself from T'Challa's smiles, from craving his unexpected laughs and the way he always has some insight Erik didn't even fucking want. When he let himself slip into weeks and months and now years of planning and running missions with him, drinking in T'Challa's brilliance--because it wasn't enough that the man was hot as fuck and richer than god--when he stopped thinking of him as the enemy. As the son of his father's killer. As a privileged royal who could never even begin to reach over the gaps in understanding that came from having polar opposite upbringings. 

He had let himself get used to T'Challa's presence like a toxin, allowing himself small doses--telling himself it was safe because T'Challa was too soft and oblivious to notice the darkness and hunger in Erik, let alone welcome it.

 

That was before T'Challa touched him when he didn't need to, begged to fuck him, with clear eyes very much not drugged and still heated with promise and intent, mouth burning into Erik with his own hunger. His unflinching light.

 

-

 

Erik is halfway to Kashmir before T'Challa would wake up for the day, maybe reach for him, maybe--he can't finish the thought.

He closes his eyes against a wave of heat shivering through his spine, brushes fingers on his neck where T'Challa's lips had been as he slid inside Erik all the way that first time.

It's not Wakanda or Birnin Zana or even the palace with the Wardogs' wing where he has a room that he's been coming home to these past few years.

It's _him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha what is editing idk i am a troll. (this will probably undergo massive editing later when i am less insane and sleep deprived and panicking about Life. i'm not here i'm asleep don't look at me shhhhhh etc.)


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